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When it’s done, hopefully she’ll still be in one piece, and I won’t ever have to see her again. I’m certain she won’t want me to, especially after this.
But what she wants isn’t exactly the most important thing right now.
Checking behind me to make sure no one else is coming down the stairwell, I carefully make my way down the steps to the landing where she’s crumpled. She passed out cold after asking how I knew her name—convenient, since that’s a conversation we need to have somewhere else—and while that’s a bad thing for a concussion if she has one, it’s a good thing for the fact that I need to quickly and quietly get her out of here, without all the yelling and arguments and struggling that I’m sure would take place if I tried to do that with her conscious, even if not fully awake.
Drugging a woman is something else on the list of things I hate the idea of and wouldn’t want to have to do, so in all honesty she did me a favor by tumbling ass over teakettle down the steps, as mybabushkawould have said.
Careful of her neck, I scoop her up, cradling her bridal-style in my arms as I start to make my way down the next flight of stairs, careful of the icy patches. This stairwell clearly leaks, which has caused patches of the dripping water to freeze on the metal steps and make the stairs more than a little hazardous. Thanks to the girl in my arms, I’m aware of it enough to not make the same mistake she did.
She’s incredibly light. She feels as if she weighs almost nothing as I carry her down the stairs, her head lolling against my chest with her blonde hair escaping from the moth-eaten wool beanie covering it. She must be wearing ten layers of clothes—she looks like a homeless person if I’m being honest—but a remarkably beautiful one at that. She has a small, delicate face with a pointed chin, and I thought I caught a glimpse of huge blue eyes fringed with pale lashes before she passed out.
There’s no telling what she looks like under the pile of clothes, but that’s not something I should be thinking about anyway.
Rein it in, Volkov.My libido has gotten me in trouble more than once in the past. I can’t help it—I have an eye for pretty women, always have, since I was old enough to be the Lothario of my secondary school. In fact, I’ve been going through a dry spell recently—and having a girl this pretty curled up against my chest is doing strange things to the heart beating inside of it.
In general, I don’t date. My job isn’t conducive to a real relationship—hearts and flowers and champagne and dinner reservations. It’s certainly not conducive tolove, or anything long-term. For one thing, a relationship built on lies and secrets isn’t one that can ever be real or truly fulfilling—my own parents’ marriage taught me that—and for another, in my line of work, you keep those close to you few and far between.
When someone does what I do, one day, someone will want their blood, their head on the proverbial platter. And if they love anyone—parents, close friends, a spouse or children—those people will be a prime target for hurting them. It’s a kindness to keep people at arm’s length—mostly for them, but also for myself. I’ve lived a life mostly free of loss, because I’ve made sure that I have nothing to lose. And I like it that way.
So my love life is mostly comprised of three options—picking up women at bars for a one-night-stand, having torrid flings with women I need to get information from, or purchasing company. I’ve never minded the latter or felt there was anything particularly salacious about it, I’m careful about what establishments I frequent, and I only ever pay for time with women who are sober and look genuinely pleased to be making money in such a way. It’s easy to tell the difference between a woman who is enjoying herself, and one who has to be drugged up or is being coerced, either by circumstance or someone else.
The latter is the furthest thing from a turn-on, to me. There’s plenty of men who I work with who wouldn’t scruple at any kind of pussy, no matter how coerced, but that’s never been and will never be me. It’s possible to exchange money and still have all parties happy to be there, and that’s the only way I choose to go about buying company.
Lately, there hasn’t even been much time for that, though. And the fact that this girl smells distinctly of some expensive soap and warm feminine skin is distracting me far more than it should be.
I carry her all the way out to the street, moving quickly through the crowd as I head back in the direction of my hotel. Thankfully the streets are mostly full of tardy commuters, people with somewhere to be and no time to consider their surroundings. No one bothers to look twice at me, despite the fact that I’m walking at a brisk clip with a girl cradled in my arms, and I’m glad of it. My success depends on not being noticed, and I make sure to keep my hat down and scarf up, my face mostly obscured, just another person swaddled tightly against the frigid Moscow air.
A week ago, there were still holiday decorations up around the city, but those have all been taken down now. This is the worst part of winter, when any joy that might have been derived from it is gone, the lights and cheer dissolved, and it’s nothing but grey skies, cold bitter wind, and filthy slush piles of snow. Everything seems more dreary and bleak this time of year in mid-January, and I find myself wishing desperately that I’d gotten an assignment somewhere warmer. Mexico, perhaps. I’d deal with the cartel for a little sunshine. It seems like a fair exchange.
But instead, I’m here, freezing my balls off as I cart this girl back to my hotel in one of the nicer parts of the city. Sometimes my assignments require me to stay in some real shitholes to avoid detection, but at least this time, I’ve been permitted to stay in a five-star establishment, a real treat compared to my last job in thefavelas.
All the better to keep an eye on Grisha Fedorov, who has been fucking an entire string of co-eds in this hotel. But the only one we have any real interest in is Lidiya, who managed to develop an actual relationship with him.
The doorman raises an eyebrow as I approach the hotel. I don’t recognize him, which means he probably wasn’t working when I checked in a few nights ago, or anytime since. Still, everyone at this hotel who I might encounter has been made aware of who I am and that I’m not to be interfered with, and this doorman will be no different.
“Volk peredayat privet,”I say clearly as I step up to the revolving door.The wolf sends his regards.Unless this doorman hasn’t been briefed, which would be a massive oversight, he’ll know by those words that I work for Vladimir and why I’m here. No one will touch me, interfere with me, or call thepolitsiyaon me.
He steps aside, looking away and down quickly as if afraid to even be noticed, and I feel a small, grim wave of relief.
I don’t necessarily like making the average man—or woman—afraid of me. There’s certainly people who Idoenjoy instilling a healthy dose of fear in, others who I’ve even taken satisfaction in seeing the terror in their eyes, but a doorman isn’t one of those, or the maid who cleans my room, or the person who clips my railway ticket. My boss, Vladimir, is a man who enjoys makingeveryonefear him, but I’ve never understood that.
Fear, like anything else, loses its savor when there’s too much of it. If the whole world fears you, you are entirely alone.
For all that I’ve lived a mostly lonely life, I like to think that at least some of the people I’ve encountered in my day to day have found me pleasant enough to remember me kindly if they think of me. After all, especially for a man like me, what else will there be when I’m gone? There will be no children, no wife, no family, no close friends to keep my memory alive. Just a hotel doorman, perhaps, who will remember the man who slipped into the revolving doors either because he was afraid, or because he found me compelling in some other way.
I’d rather it not always be fear. And I try to be inconspicuous, more often than not. But I’d like to be remembered kindly, if I am.
Death always feels very close, in my line of work, but lately it’s felt more so.
I take Lidiya up to my room on the 17thfloor, moving quickly down the hall before any guests can come up and catch sight of me. She’s remained absolutely still in my arms, which worries me, but all I can do is wait for her to wake up, and hope for the best.
There’s one crisp king-sized bed in the middle of my hotel room—which has gone woefully unused except for sleeping—and I lay her down on top of it, grabbing the fine wool throw blanket from the end of the bed and pulling it over her before stepping back. The room is quite warm, and I debate whether I should remove some of the layers she’s bundled herself up in. I don’t want her to be alarmed when she wakes up, but at the same time, even I’m eager to shed my coat and scarf and cap considering the warmth of the room. The maid turned on the gas fireplace when she came in to clean and make the bed while I was gone, and while the ambience of it is lovely, the warmth is almost stifling.
I start by shedding my own layers, tossing my black wool trench and the wool pullover that I had on beneath it over the nearest armchair, followed by my scarf and the cap tossed onto the seat. I run my hand through my short dark hair, sitting down on the edge of the sofa as I watch her and roll my shirtsleeves up.
Finally, I cross the room to where she’s lying on the bed, hoping she’ll wake up. Everything would be simpler if she would just wake up, and we could have the discussion we were meant to have. But she’s still motionless, her face paler than what seems healthy, her long pale lashes lying on her thin cheeks. Just looking at her in all of those clothes makesmefeel hot and uncomfortable, so I tell myself that it will be fine, as long as I don’t undress her completely. Just enough to make sure she doesn’t overheat.
My concern for her in and of itself is a bit odd, though I try not to think about it too closely. I’ve never been a cruel man except to those who deserve it or to whom I’ve been paid to be, but I also keep my distance, when it comes to feeling. I’m not rude to the women who I spend my time with or even particularly dismissive–I think–but once we’re done, I send them on their way. This girl isn’t even someone I can, under any circumstances, think of sexually—so why do I give a shit?
